Retribution
by AmeliaGallifrey
Summary: July, 1976. Severus sets things right.


Disclaimer: I'm not JKR. I'm only playing with her things.

**Retribution**

The summer heat is stifling, but the boy striding purposefully down the lane does not feel the heat, even beneath his heavy travelling cloak.

The boy, who is almost a man and will be, any moment now, does not glance back nor stop in the shadows to gain his bearings. He walks, only a sliver of his pale face visible beneath the raised hood of his cloak and the fall of his hair, equally black. There is an outline, a general shape, of a long, hooked nose, a heavy brow and sharply-wrought cheekbones. He is not quite handsome, though tall and long-limbed, but his quiet presence is somehow darkly impressive; an air of authority and purpose simmering in the air around him. Thin shoulders and narrow back casting a straight-lined shadow, he moves silently and at speed, something almost like grace propelling him between darkness and light amongst the dirty bricks.

The night presses in, and the boy stops his march, pausing before a grey, peeling-paint door. There is a key, on a long length of string, around his neck, and he uses it to open the door, not bothering to knock.

The sitting room into which he passes is dimly lit, a small circle of light from the electric lamp falling upon an armchair and a small, grimy side table. There are books, hundreds upon thousands of books, piled every which way and stacked upon the floor, as well as yellowing newspapers and a half-empty bottle of cheap whiskey. The bottle rests, on the floor, beside a beaten leather shoe, encasing a foot. There is another shoe, another foot; a leg, two, a torso, arms hanging limp, and finally, a head, lolling to one side.

In the dusty, pale light, the resemblance is clear; the man in the chair, unconscious or dead or perhaps merely dozing, has the very same soot-black hair, long enough to fall around a dirty collar. He has the same sickly pale skin, the same thin, tall build. At the end of the arm hanging loose are fingers still wrapped around the glass of whiskey; they are long and, quite unexpectedly delicate; tapered, capable, it seems, of graceful movement and tender touches, perhaps. But the man does not stir, even as the boy raises a thin wooden rod and flicks it, once, his angular face impassive, eyes and thin lips unmoving. It is a minute, perhaps two, and then the man in the chair wakes. His eyes, dark and red with drink, slowly focus, upon the spectral boy standing over him.

"You! You- you ain't welcome here, boy! Unnatural -"

But the boy, face finally betraying emotion – a strange, twisted combination of anger, pity and disgust – lifts the rod again and points it directly into the man's now apprehensive face.

"Get that... that thing away from me, you -"

"Did you do it?" The voice seems to match the boy's appearance, though it is deeper, colder, perhaps, than would be expected from a boy still in his teens. The words are quiet, almost whispered; clear and slow, undeniably accusing.

"I – boy – you -"

"Did you do it? Did you... murder her?"

The rod is an inch from the man's left eye now, and, bizarrely, a lazy spiral of dark smoke, rising in thick coils from the very tip of it. The man's focus shifts, from that strangely threatening piece of wood, to the boy's face. The hood has slipped down, now, revealing the black hair hanging limply past his shoulders. There are lines of colour, a mottled red so dark it is almost purple, along his sharp cheekbones, and in the dark light it appears his eyes are black, and narrowed in concentrated rage. The man in the chair jerks his head, and spits.

"The wench was headed for death, anyway, so what if I pushed 'er along some! She was good for nothing, like her devil spawn! Like you -"

The man's face twists in rage, and he spits again, this time in the direction of the boy's boot-clad feet. He does not flinch; only a small muscle, twitching near his mouth, betrays his fury. The long, artist's fingers, holding the rod aloft, do not tremble.

"So you do not deny it? You do not deny your hand in her death?" The boy is murmuring now, his low, cold voice strangely melodic. The man cackles like a fox, or a wolf.

"Deny it! Never done myself so proud, boy! 'Twas a service to the public, that was! You shoulda seen her fall, tumblin' down them stairs, screaming all the while! No witchery to save 'er then, was there?"

The man is undoubtedly mad, and sick with a lifetime's worth of drink, but through the blur of it his eyes are sharp, where they focus upon the boy's face. The man leans forward, light from the lamp reaching no further and casting him in sudden shadow and for the first time, the boy's hand trembles where it holds the rod.

"I killed her, boy, and if she was a witch... what does that make me? Well? I mastered her, boy, her and her devil ways, so what does that make me, then?"

The boy's face belies nothing, and the rod no longer trembles.

"A murderer. Nothing more."

The satisfied glint in the man's eye wavers, then disappears entirely, as a new fury overcomes his features. He moves to stand, perhaps to fight, but the boy is quick.

There are words, indecipherable and poetically lilting, almost, had they not been spoken in hatred. Then, a flash, of light an unnatural green, and in it the boy's white face is thrown into sharp relief; he is nothing but bones and hollows, with black eyes looming from out of the pale. Then, the light is gone, and there is nothing more.


End file.
